


The Dark Before the Dawn

by epeolatry



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aromantic Character, Attempted Assault, Blood As Lube, Bloodplay, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Consensual Infidelity, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Dealing, Drugged Sex, Drunk Sex, F/M, Fake Marriage, Finger Sucking, Flick knife, Gang Violence, Gangs, Genderfluid Character, Grief/Mourning, Guns, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, I dunno if that might trigger someone?, Implied Child Abuse, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not detail though just the aftermath, Polygamy, Recreational Drug Use, Threats of Violence, Threesome - M/M/M, Underage - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, West Side Story references, Yes Really, car theft, mention of Hepatitis B, patron Minette - Freeform, sorry - Freeform, strip club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1600619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/pseuds/epeolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Patron Minette are the most powerful gang in town, they've got a hand in everything be it drug running, prostitution, or dealing in stolen goods. But who are they? Where did they come from?</p><p>Or, the story of how Montparnasse, Gueulemer, Babet, Claquesous, and Brujon met and eventually came to form the infamous Patron Minette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Babet & Brujon

“You look after your kid brother, you hear? Don’t think I don’t know what the older boys get up to with the younger lads at schools like this. You keep your eye on him.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Babet managed not to shudder at the reminder of what he was going back to, and this time with his kid brother to look after as well.

 

“Good man.”

 

Babet looked down at Brujon, four years younger and a foot shorter than him. He looked ridiculous in the too-big school uniform their father had ordered him into earlier that morning but Babet supposed he’d grow. Brujon hadn’t shut up about how excited he was for his first day at the Academy for a month now, but there were tears in his eyes as he hugged their father’s legs goodbye; deployment meant the boys wouldn’t see him for another eight months.

 

“Be good boys,” said the man, sternly but fondly as he disentangled his youngest from around his knees, “I’ll see you for the summer break.”

 

That night in the dormitory Brujon was the only first year who didn’t cry, but at breakfast Babet saw the red marks on boy’s forearm where he’d been pinching himself all night and heard his mutter of “I _hate_ school,” into his morning porridge.

 

* * *

 

“Come on! Pleeeease!”

 

“No Brujon, you’re too young!” At thirteen Babet was still a few inches taller than his younger brother and was holding his cigarette packet far out of reach of the pre-teen.

 

“You started smoking when you were my age!”

 

“Did not!”

 

“Did too! And if you don’t give me one I’ll tell Matron you keep them under your mattress and she’ll search your room.”

 

Babet stopped struggling just long enough to glare at his grasping little brother, “If you tell Matron then you’re a snitch. Snitches get stitches, even if you’re my little brother.”

 

Although Brujon would deny until he was blue in the face that he had any fear of his elder brother, the threat was real enough to make him stop trying to kick Babet in the shins and instead pout angrily at him.

 

“Come _on_ Babet!”

 

With a sigh, Babet relented, passing one single cigarette to little Brujon with the stern proviso that, “You can have _one_ cigarette. But you’re not coming with me and my mates; you have to go find your own spot to smoke. And if you get caught don’t come running to me and _don’t_ run your mouth off to Matron neither about me giving it to you. And if you cough even once while you smoke it I’ll know and I’ll never give you another.”

 

Brujon nodded solemnly and tucked the contraband behind his ear as he’d seen his brother do.

 

“Well? Get out of here!”

 

* * *

 

“Mr Babet, have you anything to add?”

 

Babet lounged in his chair in the principal’s office wearing the universal look of contemptuous teenage boredom, his tie loose and two buttons of his regulation school shirt undone revealing a thin, white chest. Brujon sat beside him in similar indifference, though it was his continued education at the Academy being called into question, not Babet’s.

 

“I’m not the boss of him,” said Babet laconically, “He does what he likes.”

 

“So you played no part in procuring, concealing, nor partaking of any of the illicit substances found under Mr Brujon’s mattress.”

 

“None whatsoever,” smirked Babet, as his wayward little brother sniggered.

 

The principal sighed. He’d had enough of these two in his office over the years of their tenure at his school. Babet was almost always up to no good but he was sensible enough to cover his tracks; Brujon on the other hand seemed genuinely uncaring of whether or not anybody noticed his increasingly alarming and illegal behaviour, nor whether or not he was punished.

 

“Mr Babet, as I have no hard evidence other than genetics linking you to your brother’s misdeeds I have no grounds on which to punish you. You will be allowed to remain at this school and finish your final year, graduating with the rest of your classmates. Brujon however,” he eyed the younger teen with exasperation, “Enough is enough. Expulsion is the only option left to me, seeing as numerous detentions and suspensions seem to have done nothing to curb your thirst for rule breaking. I will inform your father immediately and you are confined to your dormitory until further notice. You are both dismissed.”

 

* * *

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at your graduation ball or some shit like that?”

 

Babet looked up. His younger brother – almost taller than he was now, and still growing – was looking at him from the doorway, arms folded across his chest, his eyes red-rimmed.

 

“What are you doing here? I thought you were banned from school property.”

 

“I got permission to come see you graduate. Seeing as I’m your only living relative now.” Brujon’s eyes remained dry but he looked away as he spoke, his hard gaze lingering on the scuffed dormitory wall.

 

“Right,” Babet’s mouth worked as if autonomous from his brain, his insides roiling and sick as he managed to answer his brother calmly, “Yeah. I got permission not to attend the ceremony. Because of… y’know. Dad. And all.”

 

“Yeah,” Brujon answered gruffly, jerking his head once in rough affirmation, “Well whatever. It’s a total fucking snorefest anyway, I didn’t even want to come except to see you. I mean, not in a sappy way, just you probably need a ride home right? Got all your shit packed?”

 

Babet couldn’t help but smile sadly at his brother’s brashness; his mouth had always been Brujon’s coping mechanism. Babet gestured at the corner where one small rucksack stood, containing all his worldly belongings, sans school uniform and text books which had been disposed of the night before.

 

“All good to go. Though last time I checked you weren’t old enough to drive…” 

 

Brujon rolled his eyes at the minor legal technicality, “So get the bus if you’re gonna be a bitch about it. Otherwise I’ll meet you on the drive in half an hour, I gotta see a man about a dog.”

 

Babet chuckled knowingly, “Still selling drugs to kids?”

 

Brujon smiled at that, and for a second Babet saw the shadow of his brother’s usual grin crinkle his eyes and light up his expression.

 

“Nope. Matron still keeps a couple of canisters of nitrous oxide in the infirmary and about sixty different prescription meds. This is strictly a procurement trip.”

 

* * *

 

Babet sighed as the familiar number flashed up on his phone and he answered quickly with a peremptory, “Is this your phone call?”

 

“Yup,” came a crackly voice along the line, and he could hear the laughter in his brother’s voice, accompanied by a mental image of the kid’s blood-stained teeth bared in a feral grin.

 

“How much this time?”

 

“Only two grand.”

 

Babet couldn’t help but laugh incredulously, “ _Only?_ You dumb fuck, what did you do this time?”

 

“Tried to sell some speed to the wrong guy.”

 

“And you realise this is the fourth time in as many months I’ve posted bail for you? Pretty soon they’re gonna stop letting you out.”

 

“How long are you gonna be?”

 

Babet sighed with good humour as he did the required mental calculations for procuring such a sum. “I’ll come get you tomorrow morning.”

 

“I owe you one bruv,” Brujon said cheerfully.

 

“You owe me four, you innumerate twat,” griped Babet fondly.

 

“Yeah, cool. Listen, can I crash at yours too? I need a place to stay.”

 

“We’ll have to share a bed, I ain’t got any spare room.”

 

“Gaayyy,” droned Brujon jokingly, “Fine. See you tomorrow.”

 

“You little shit,” muttered Babet, but as he dialled off the phone call he couldn’t help but smile; his little brother was coming home again, at least for a few days.


	2. Gueulemer

“Another?”

 

Gueulemer nodded. Babet vaulted over the bar and pulled two more beers out of the fridge. It was after hours and the club was dark and empty except for the pair indulging in a liquid breakfast; the glitter swept away, the buzz of the neons silenced and all the girls and punters cleared out hours ago. Babet considered his first week running the place to have gone as smoothly as could be expected of a notorious lap dancing club under new and untested management, and he was happy to kick back and celebrate.

 

“How long did you say you’ve worked here buddy?” the blond asked, his words slurring ever so slightly.

 

“Four years,” grunted Gueulemer, popping the lid off his beer with his lighter.

 

“Do you like it?”Babet continued, genuinely curious. He had learned long ago that happy staff made his job a lot easier and he wanted to get to the root of any issues as soon as possible; he had already spoken to most of the dancers, but if anyone would know about tensions among the front of house workers it would be the Head Bouncer.

 

“It’s a job.” Gueulemer raised the bottle to his lips and took a deep drink, pointedly not making eye contact with his new boss.

 

“And the pay is good?” Babet pressed. He’d been going over the historical accounts all week and it seemed to him there could be a little wiggle room concerning salaries if it bought him loyal workers. In the shadier industries like this one loyalty was important, even if it had to be bought; people would remember the new manager who upped their wages in his first week.

 

“Good enough.”

 

Babet sighed, “You’re not a big talker, are you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

 

“No.”

 

Silence descended for a few minutes as the two men swigged their beers and pursued their own thoughts. Babet was good at reading people, always had been. It was one of the reasons he was so successful in his chosen career of club manager. He liked people, regardless of whether they were the sweaty bankers who paid his bills, the gorgeous girls who danced for them, or the security guards who looked after the lot of them. This guy, Babet understood, was not going to open up right away. He was cagey, like a dog that’s been kicked one too many times and now expects abuse from every passing stranger. But he was being polite enough, answering questions in brief rather than not at all, indicating discomfort rather than hostility. Babet decided to play it straight.

 

“Look, I’ll level with you buddy. I’m new around here and while I don’t intend to make a whole lot of changes – especially to staffing – I do want to make sure that the people working here are happy. Maybe you don’t believe that, maybe you do, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that if you, or anyone else, has an issue with the way this place is run I want to hear about it.  No tricks, no witch hunt; I’m just interested in running a business as efficiently as possible. Will you pass on that message for me?”

 

Gueulemer nodded slowly, turning to look Babet in the eye for the first time all night, his expression concentrated as though he was trying to riddle out any untruth from Babet’s face. Finally he said, “Sure,” then downed the remainder of his beer. He gathered all the empties, dumped them in the bin and left.

 

The next evening one bouncer, two barmen, and a dancer he had previously thought were happy enough came to him with complaints about hours, wages, and scheduling conflicts, all of which he was able to resolve with an easy smile and a nod of gratitude to his new ally at the door. Once the club was locked up, Gueulemer and Babet shared a few more beers and a comfortable silence at the bar.

 

Three months later Babet had grown used to Gueulemer’s stoicism. The immense man was quite popular at the club as it turned out; respected by his colleagues at the door and favoured by the dancers for his quiet respect of them and his strict enforcement of the no touching policy. The barmen liked him because he never complained about paying for his drinks while the punters liked him because he was firm yet fair and never violent unless provoked.

 

Some thought he was dumb in both senses of the word, but the man was the most observant bouncer Babet had ever worked with. The one and only time he’d heard Gueulemer raise his voice had sent gooseflesh crawling down his arms.

 

He and Gueulemer had fallen into a routine of sorts, closing up the club together most evenings and sitting down for a couple of beers. Over time Babet had managed to extract small pieces of Gueulemer’s past and personality; how he’d ended up at the club, what he’d done beforehand, who he knew and suchlike. Babet never pressed, letting the larger man give up his secrets on his own terms, while Gueulemer never told Babet to shut up when he got drunk and ran his mouth, which happened almost every time they drank together; as far as drinking buddies went Babet thought he might have found his soul mate.

 

Babet had always been attracted by dramatics. He liked a certain kind of theatre to liven up his relationship dynamics so perhaps that was why he liked to imagine withdrawn Gueulemer as a happy, garrulous child shocked into surly silence by the way the world had betrayed him. As far as Babet could piece together, Gueulemer had grown up in a normal house on a normal street with a normal family. They lived poorly but happily, loved by their parents, his elder brother frequently in trouble with the law but always welcomed home, by their parents at least... What started out as a childish competitive streak soon became outright physical violence and Gueulemer dreaded the homecoming of his brother and the bruises that would accompany it. One night, twelve year old Gueulemer was making himself a sandwich, and when push literally came to shove he reacted on instinct and the bread knife found its way into his brother’s gut.

 

The brother survived but pressed charges and Gueulemer ended up being disowned by his family and sentenced to six years in a juvenile detention facility. Babet sympathised; he had been institutionalised at a young age as well, though in a more academic setting. Furthermore he’d seen first-hand what juvie could be like through his brother’s two stints there. The penitentiary had taught Gueulemer to keep his mouth shut and his fists raised, and although Babet doubted that being separated from his family for a few years was the only trauma that had made Gueulemer into an almost silent adult he didn’t press for further details.

 

Two things were certain however; Gueulemer had never let himself be a target again (Babet estimated once that he spent a good quarter of his wages on gym membership), and it had been his one and only episode of imprisonment.

 

As the hulking, tattooed man silently offered him a freshly opened beer, Babet decided that he liked Gueulemer. He was certainly a useful man to keep around.


	3. Claquesous

“Go see ‘Sous,” Candy shrugged, snapping her bra back on with the ease that belonged to all women combined with the nonchalance of those in her particular profession.

 

“Who?” Babet asked, untwisting the strap for her and nodding to Bambi and Angel as they exited the dressing room for their stints on stage.

 

“’Sous. _Claquesous_. He’s a forger, counterfeiter extraordinaire. You need papers, he’s the guy to see. Roxxi used him for her visa, and that blonde kid who used to work here, the seventeen year old with the ridiculous tits and the track marks-”

 

“Desiree?”

 

“Yeah. He did her fake ID.”

 

Babet looked contemplative. He needed the papers if this scam was going to work and he sure as hell _needed_ the scam to work. “How do I find this guy?”

 

“Find ‘Sous?” Candy laughed as she peeled off her fake eyelashes, “Honey, you don’t find ‘Sous. He finds _you_. Two blocks from here there’s a squat house, you know it?”

 

“Yeah.” Babet had found one of his girls there after a two week absence, black and bloated and smelling worse than the dead rats under the floorboards. It wasn’t a pleasant memory.

 

“Go there. Slide a note under the front door with your name and what you need. He’ll find you.”

 

Babet’s eyebrows rose sceptically, “He’ll find me? Just with a name? What is he, Batman?”

 

“He is the Night,” Candy grinned knowingly and would say no more on the subject.

 

* * *

 

“Now I ask myself, why does a man who is surrounded by women motivated by money need a fake marriage certificate?”

 

Babet was not easily startled, but he jumped violently enough at the unexpected voice in his office that the accounts book he had been poring over thudded to the floor.

 

“Claquesous, I presume?” he glared at the shadow that had detached itself from the others in the corner of the room and approached him with an extended hand.

 

“At your service.”

 

The intruder looked like he’d come straight from a Masquerade themed party but Babet merely raised an eyebrow at the pearly white mask that shrouded half of the dark skinned stranger’s face in mystery. “Right. Well you know what I need, so can you do it?”

 

“Yes. But I would have my curiosity satisfied before I do so.”

 

Babet sighed and ran a hand through his white-blond hair. “I need cash. Quickly. I’ve got a few false identities out there and one of them has a pretty hefty life insurance policy attached to it. In the event of Monsieur X’s death his wife is to collect £250,000.00. The catch is, I need a wife.”

 

Claquesous nodded, “And why not use one of your girls? They like you, you know. You do not hurt them like other _managers_ , you do not force your hand into their wallets or their cunts. Surely one of them would agree to be your wife.”

 

“Sure. But I wouldn’t trust a damn one of them not to run off with the cash. I hear you’re the guy to talk to about non-people. You magic me up an imaginary wife and a fake marriage certificate, find me some bint who’ll play the part and keep quiet for a couple of grand and hey presto! You’re sitting pretty on £10,000.00 yourself. Deal?”

 

“You would trust me but not your own employees?”

 

“I don’t trust anyone. Clearly you don’t either or I would have been able to phone or email you like a normal fucking person.”

 

Claquesous grinned, white teeth gleaming in the shadow he seemed to inhabit. A hand reached into a hidden pocket and suddenly Babet’s lap was full of passports. “Pick one.”

 

Sceptically, Babet opened each, but despite his best efforts was unable to discern any forgery. “Are these all real?”

 

Claquesous shrugged, “Some. Dead girls, missing girls. Their names and faces find their way to me. Others never existed at all, figments only of the bureaucratic imagination.”

 

Babet lingered on one, a British passport, the girl in the photo dusky skinned and plain with long dark hair, a too-big nose, and thick-rimmed glasses. Close to his own age. Physically unremarkable. Perfect.

 

“I want her.”

 

“A figment,” smiled Claquesous, “Excellent choice. She is my personal favourite. I’ll have your papers and the girl ready tomorrow. Monsieur X dies next week and his grieving widow will collect the monetary comfort offered her. Sign here.”

 

Babet was frowning at the photo, busy memorising the name, the date of birth, the home town, but he scribbled the required information belonging to Monsieur X onto the marriage document indicated by Claquesous – the false name, birth date, parentage, occupation, etc. – and passed it back to the shadowy man.

 

“One thing, can you- ”

 

Babet looked up to see only an empty room, into which he cursed profusely before collecting his accounting book from the floor and going back to the columns of numbers.

 

* * *

 

“To success!” toasted Babet jovially, cheap champagne sloshing out of the glass tumbler that he clinked against his new wife’s, both of them flush with the triumph of their scheme. They were celebrating in the dingy living room of Babet’s flat in the meaner part of town; the more urgent debts were paid off, the clubs would remain open, and he had £20,000.00 remaining from the windfall, even if he was left with one less identity. It was no matter; ‘Sous’s forgery had proven impeccable and Babet was sure that another character could easily be manufactured for him if it was required in the near future.

 

The girl’s performance had been flawless – the recently bereaved widow, lost in a sea of confusion and grief – and he’d instantly offered her a job in his favourite club, which she had laughingly declined. In real life she seemed less plain than in her photograph, the flat image unable to convey the light of her dark eyes behind the thick glasses, the sheen of her hair, the rich timbre of her voice. She was clever too, and engaging to talk with. Women were no mystery to Babet and he was confident that this charming girl would end the night in his bed – as was only fitting on their wedding night.

 

“Where is ‘Sous, shouldn’t he be here to collect?” asked Babet, topping up his new friend’s glass.

 

“He is otherwise engaged tonight,” the girl purred, “But I am sure he will make an appearance later in the evening.”

 

“Later in the evening _I_ might well be otherwise engaged,” smirked Babet, brushing a strand of hair behind his spouse’s ear and making her giggle.

 

“You’re very bold. Do you say these things to all the girls or just the ones you’ve married?”

 

“Only the ones I’ve married have sworn to ‘love and obey’ me,” he grinned, “Surely you don’t mean to break your vows so soon?”

 

Ten minutes later the bottle was finished and the girl was straddling Babet’s lap, pressing him back into the worn cushions of the couch. He moaned as her clever tongue traced the line of his ear then whispered huskily, “I have something to tell you, husband of mine.”

 

“Mhm?” His hands were roving up and down her slender sides under her blouse, pinching at her supple flesh as his cock stirred in his jeans. He opened his eyes to see her smiling beatifically down at him and wondered if it was too late to mention that he wasn’t a monogamous relationship sort of person. Then she pulled her blouse over her head, revealing a lacy, pastel bra that contrasted beautifully with her caramel skin. She unhooked the bra to reveal dark nipples on a flat chest.

 

The alcohol clouded Babet’s head just enough that he thought nothing of it. He’d seen plenty of flat chested girls in his time, had some clients who were very partial to that particular look in fact, and he simply leaned up to take one nipple in his mouth. The girl laughed throatily and gently pried him off her. She stood, coquettish in only a skirt now, and turned her back to him while she stripped. When she turned around to face him, naked as the day she was born, Babet’s brain caught up with what was happening.

 

“Claquesous?” he hazarded, stuttering in his confusion at the wife transformed into husband.

 

The other man removed his wig and nodded.

 

“Very impressive,” Babet muttered, mouth dry at the sight of the lean body before him. He couldn’t help but note the half hardness between those legs, wondering if Claquesous had revealed himself simply to end the discomfort that _that_ must have caused, all tucked away.

 

Claquesous turned away again, removing the thick glasses and replacing them with the white mask he had worn on the night of their first meeting before turning back to face Babet, apparently unembarrassed by his nudity and swift change in persona.

 

“If you wish you can still bed your wife,” stated Claquesous, and the rich huskiness of the girl’s voice became richer as his naturally lower tones returned, “I thought it prudent however you were made aware that she is one of my many alter egos.”

 

Babet swallowed hard, nodding as he groped for the words, still entranced by the figure before him, bizarro mask or no. “My wife. Are we... are we actually married then?”

 

“Only in so far as you are actually Monsieur X and I am actually a woman.”

 

Babet nodded again, unable to look away from the mysterious man’s slender body, so warm under his hands bare moments ago. “And are you? … A woman?” he asked hesitantly, “I mean, do you prefer female or... or male, or...”

 

“He, she, they... Just Claquesous suits me fine,” the other man replied nonchalantly, approaching and sliding back into Babet’s lap before leaning down to plant delicate, open mouthed kisses against the blond’s throat.

 

“That’s not your real name though, is it?” Babet gasped as teeth nipped at his collarbone and a warm body gyrated against his, grinding their hips together.

 

“Is that really your most pressing concern right now?” Claquesous countered breathily, Babet’s hardness straining against his own, a thin layer of denim all that separated them.

 

“Not really, no.”

 

“Then sit down and shut up.”


	4. Babet x Claquesous

“Jesus ‘Sous, where’ve you been, I- mmph!”

 

Claquesous stormed into the dimly lit office, grabbed Babet by the throat and shoved him up against the nearest wall before kissing him soundly, a demand in his lips and tongue and teeth that made the other man comply instantly. Claquesous devoured Babet, his grasp around the other man’s throat expert, just tight enough to exact submission but far from painful. Then, with a firm bite of Babet’s lower lip, he pulled away panting, dark eyed, and with someone else’s dried blood covering one side of his face.

 

“Your place. _Now_.”

 

Babet’s eyes too were blown wide from the unexpected make out session but he looked up at his bloodied lover with seriousness, “You wanna play?”

 

“Yes,” growled Claquesous, “Fuck yes.”

 

Claquesous was naturally dominant in bed, particularly when he was feeling male, and Babet knew he frequented BDSM clubs and the like. Babet wasn’t really into the BDSM scene, he preferred sex to be fun and spontaneous rather than physically and psychologically demanding, but sometimes Claquesous just needed to take charge and Babet was happy enough to cater to those needs on occasion. Apparently tonight was one of those occasions.

 

“Just let me put away the accounts books then I’m all yours.”

 

Claquesous gave a snarl of frustration, but stepped away and allowed Babet to lock up the ledgers. As soon as he’d dropped the key into his pocket Babet allowed himself to be manhandled out of the office, through the empty club and out to the car. He was thrown unceremoniously into the passenger seat where he remained while Claquesous broke every speed limit possible during the five minute drive to Babet’s flat.

 

Babet allowed himself to be hauled out of the car again by his shirt and shoved through the door of his own flat, the rough treatment and the bite of Claquesous’s fingernails in his flesh giving him an unexpected rush of arousal. He always got off when they played these games; Claquesous was a considerate dominant and made sure of that, but the foreplay (such as it was) usually didn’t arouse him quite so much.

 

“Bedroom,” snapped Claquesous when they were at last inside and alone.

 

“Time out,” called Babet, turning to face his lover, who was breathing hard and looking quite terrifying with his dark eyes and blood stained face, “What do you want out of this?”

 

Claquesous closed his eyes a moment, composing himself, holding his urges in check and pushing his rational side to the fore for a moment. “I want to hurt you, I want you to bleed. Then I want to fuck you. And I want you to beg. Ok?”

 

“Fine,” nodded Babet easily. He wouldn’t consider himself a masochist by a long shot but things with Claquesous were… different, somehow. He didn’t mind being hurt by him, definitely not if it meant being fucked as well. “Belt?”

 

There was a flash of reflected light in the hallway and suddenly Claquesous was holding a blade. “Knife.”

 

“Sterilise it,” warned Babet, but Claquesous was already pulling a handful of individually wrapped alcohol wipes from his other pocket.

 

“How much do you like that shirt?” inquired Claquesous darkly.

 

Babet looked down; it was an old t-shirt. He shrugged. Claquesous smiled thinly.

 

“Then I think we’re good to go,” Babet grinned, “Safeword?”

 

“Red,” murmured Claquesous and for a second all of the malice disappeared from his eyes and Babet saw the underlying depths of affection and reassurance there.

 

Babet nodded once and then they were back in-scene. Claquesous grabbed his arms and yanked them behind his back, shoving him towards the bedroom. Babet did his best not to stumble, to just let Claquesous take charge of his body and steer him wherever he wanted. In a moment he found himself pushed onto his own bed, landing face down.

 

“On your back. Hands above your head,” snarled Claquesous, releasing his hold of Babet’s already bruising wrists. Babet complied, half hard already, an unexpected whine escaping as Claquesous cuffed him roughly to the headboard of the bed.

 

Claquesous usually worked in silence, preferring to dominate by action rather than word, therefore Babet was unsurprised when the knife flicked out again without warning. It slid cleanly down the front of his shirt, shearing the material in two and exposing his lean, tattooed chest. It was kind of hot, he had to admit, being stripped so peremptorily while that dangerous gleam in Claquesous’s dark eyes roved over his exposed body.

 

Claquesous thumbed Babet’s jeans open and yanked them down to his knees, effectively immobilising the blond’s legs as well as his arms. Babet lay there with his boxers tenting more with each flash of the blade and he was surprised when Claquesous leaned down to kiss him. It was harsh and demanding, but there was an aggressive sort of passion in it and Babet found himself moaning quietly into his lover’s mouth, his hips twitching in a fruitless search for friction against his cock. A sudden sting against the underside of his jaw introduced the knife to his bare skin, but the cool threat of the metal was intoxicating as Claquesous continued to kiss him deeply, wet and urgent.

 

Eventually Claquesous pulled away with a chilling smile, making Babet whine. A sudden sharp pain transformed the whine into a yelp as Claquesous nicked him, and the blade came away from his throat wet, one shining droplet of blood gilding its point. Claquesous’s fingers stung as they swiped over the freshly made cut and Babet squirmed, but when the darker man pushed his bloody fingers into the blond’s mouth they both let out a moan.

 

“That’s it,” growled Claquesous, and Babet could feel the thin trickle of blood wending its way down his neck to stain the bed sheets. The sheer lust on Claquesous’s eyes as he traced its scarlet journey across his lover’s skin made Babet shiver; it wasn’t their first time playing with knives and blood, but every time felt like a new exploration in intimacy.

 

The knife flashed again and Claquesous slowly scraped the flat of it edge first down Babet’s chest, starting at his sternum and not stopping until he reached the dip of his belly button, hardly even grazing the skin, just allowing the implicit threat to grow with each agonising second. Claquesous dipped his head and took one pierced nipple into his mouth, making Babet groan and shudder beneath him despite the knife pressed against his ribs. Claquesous rolled the nipple in his mouth, biting down gently and tugging at the ring with his teeth even as he raised the knife and slowly began circling Babet’s other nipple with its point, scratching a lazy circle around the sensitive skin.

 

Babet was moaning now and when he started begging it wasn’t just because that was what Claquesous had wanted from the scene; “Fuck, ‘Sous, fuck, please, that’s so good. Your fucking teeth, fuck- _god!_ ‘Sous…” The handcuffs rattled against the headboard as he squirmed and Claquesous’s smile was savage as he looked up at his captive lover.

 

“Do you want something?” he taunted, pressing the point of the knife harder into Babet’s chest, until a tiny bubble of blood appeared.

 

“Hurt me,” panted Babet without hesitation, “Please, _fuck_ ‘Sous, I need you.”

 

Smiling darkly, seemingly pleased with the answer, Claquesous switched sides, the knife in his right hand now pressing against the wet, swollen nipple he had been tonguing a moment before, his mouth closing over the left, tasting the tiniest hint of blood from the little puncture.

 

Babet was screamingly hard and he gasped aloud as Claquesous’s knife etched one long line into the right side of his chest, the first real incision. The cut instantly welled up with blood, making Babet’s head spin with the fear and the pleasure of it all. Claquesous’s hot tongue traced the crimson line up his chest then delved back into Babet’s mouth in another bloody kiss that had both of them moaning.

 

Claquesous pinched hard at both of Babet’s pierced nipples as they kissed, making him squirm and moan as blood trickled over his ribs. Claquesous bit down hard on his lip and Babet hissed in pain, making his lover chuckle darkly against his swollen lips.

 

“Shhh, be still,” admonished Claquesous, releasing Babet’s tormented nipples in favour of smearing his fingers through the blood on his lover’s chest, the bright red contrasting beautifully with the greys and blacks of tattoos old and new. He picked up the knife again and made an identical cut on the left side, Babet moaning and arching off the bed as his skin parted and blood burst to the surface. Claquesous’s shirt was dark with blood in places and he stripped it off, quickly followed by his trousers, revealing his full erection. Babet moaned again at the sight.

 

The knife was red and slick by now as Claquesous sliced deftly through Babet’s boxers, leaving them both exposed.

 

“Fuck me, ‘Sous,” whined Babet, “Please, fuck me.”

 

Claquesous smirked, running his hand over Babet’s chest until it was coated in blood then rubbing the fluid over his cock as if it was lube, slathering himself in it and groaning softly as he did so, Babet watching every motion with wide, fascinated eyes. He performed the same service for Babet’s cock, painting him in his own blood, the sudden hot friction oh so good and not enough, gone as soon as it had come and providing no relief to the whimpering, bloodied man on the bed.

 

A sharp pain between his legs made Babet yelp suddenly, and Claquesous tongued at the new cut on his inner thigh, closing his mouth over it to suck, encouraging the blood to flow more easily so he could run his fingers through it and trace them between Babet’s cheeks.

 

Babet was whimpering nonstop now, a high whine that he was barely even aware came from his own throat. He was light headed, high on lust, and the fact that Claquesous was sliding a finger inside him with only his own blood to ease the way was the hottest thing he could conceive of in that moment. Claquesous pushed his knees up and fingered him slowly, adding a little bit of lube to the blood to make him slicker, every so often ducking down to lick at the tip of Babet’s cock or at the red mess on his chest, keeping one eye on his lover’s reactions at all times.

 

Finally, when Babet’s whining and pleading reached fever pitch, Claquesous spat into his hand, rubbed the saliva along his cock to mix with the blood, and pushed inside Babet with one thrust of his hips. Babet gasped at the intrusion then relaxed as Claquesous began to fuck him in long, slow strokes, a look of bliss replacing the desperation of a moment before.

 

Watching Babet bite his lip and bleed for him was almost ecstasy for Claquesous; he could hardly remember the frantic urgency of his earlier need now that he was buried in his handcuffed and bleeding lover. His thrusts sped up, pulling gentle groans from Babet and making the rickety bed rock in time with them. Claquesous pushed Babet’s legs higher, changing the angle, pressing in deeper and making his lover yowl with pleasure, tattooed knuckles clenching around the cuffs that kept him restrained and helpless.

 

Claquesous was close already, so tightly wound that he probably could have come just from jerking himself off over Babet’s bleeding body. He wrapped a firm hand around Babet’s cock and began to stroke, the easy glide facilitated by the other man’s blood further ratcheting up his arousal. Babet was gabbling, nonsensical pleading mixed with curses and within minutes he was coming hard, spraying his chest white over the red of his blood and the black of his tattoos, a perfect canvas of lust. Claquesous bent him almost in half, ignoring Babet’s whimpers, before pounding into him as hard as he could, coming moments later, his vision blacking out as he shouted his climax.

 

Still panting, Claquesous eased himself out of Babet and gently uncuffed him, massaging the other man’s reddened, bruised wrists. Babet looked dazed, but when Claquesous held up the alcohol wipes and whispered, “This is going to sting,” he nodded, only hissing a little at the renewed pain at his throat, his inner thigh and in twin stripes down his chest.

 

There was really very little point in changing the sheets while both of them were still covered in blood and come. As Babet looked as though he was about to drop off to sleep at any second, Claquesous made do with simply wiping up as much of the mess as possible with his lover’s already ruined t-shirt; they would shower in the morning. And possibly procure new bedsheets.

 

Claquesous made to get up to put the shirt in the bin but Babet grabbed his hand and whimpered, “Don’t go. Stay the night.”

 

“I’ve stayed every night this week,” smiled Claquesous fondly, a tiny shiver of arousal warming him as a drop of fresh blood oozed from the sterilised cut between Babet’s legs. He was too exhausted to act on it of course, but the singularly sexy fact remained that Babet had allowed him to do that to him; _with_ him.

 

Babet grunted, shifting in the bed and blearily opening his eyes to say, “So why don’t you just fucking move in already?”

 

“Really?” Claquesous asked as he slid back into bed, his tone gently surprised; Babet was good humoured, open minded, and charismatic, but he had been upfront with Claquesous from the beginning about the fact that he was aromantic and, married or not, was unlikely to bring anything more than platonic love and mind-blowing sex to the table. Claquesous had not objected.

 

“Why not? Move in here. Yeah. Let’s just…”

 

“Let’s just sleep,” whispered Claquesous affectionately, kissing Babet’s sweaty hair as he snored quietly and curling up beside him with a smile.


	5. Montparnasse

“I’m here about the job.”

 

Babet gave the boy standing on the doorstep of the club a once over. He was a boy certainly, of medium height, slim build and pale skin with dark hair. His lips were glossy and there was an insouciant cant to his hips, on one of which rested a delicate, manicured hand ornamented with two silver rings. Even standing still he was a graceful figure, beautifully androgynous with cut glass cheekbones; carefully dressed, with his black button down shirt tailored and the leather jacket slung over one shoulder, an air of apparent nonchalance as he showed off the designer label. Black Raybans shielded his eyes from the early afternoon sunlight and Babet just knew he was the kind of person who would slip them into a soft pouch to keep them protected rather than simply push them up and risk ruining his perfectly coiffed hair.

 

Sure enough, when Babet stepped aside and gestured for the boy to come in, out came the little pouch and off came the sunglasses, revealing dark, clever eyes which swept around the room. They seemingly took in every detail of the bar, the stages and the main floor before coming to rest on Babet. The cool gaze never flinched as the blond maintained eye contact while introducing himself and Claquesous, who had appeared suddenly and silently from behind him, wearing dark sunglasses and a hoodie pulled low over his face despite the indoors gloom.

 

“A pleasure,” said the boy, shaking both of their hands and smiling so coldly that Babet knew instantly he would never be a dancer; being able to put people at ease was the number one skill he looked for in his staff. “My name is Montparnasse.”

 

“Please, come through,” invited Babet, ignoring Claquesous’s raised eyebrow and ushering the boy backstage and into his dingy office. “Have you ever danced before, Montparnasse?”

 

“Not professionally, no.”

 

“No problem. We often get beginners here, right ‘Sous?”

 

Claquesous made no sound, simply fixed the boy with an intense stare as if memorizing his every feature for a police line up later.

 

“And why do you want to work here?”

 

Montparnasse shrugged as if he was bored by the whole exchange, “I’m pretty and I need the money.”

 

Babet laughed, “Honesty, I like it. Well kid, I’d love to give you a job but legally I can only hire people eighteen plus, sorry.”

 

“I’m eighteen,” Montparnasse said, a little too quickly, before extracting an ID card from his breast pocket as if he had been waiting for that very question. Babet didn’t even bother to look at the card, just passed it to Claquesous who gave it the once over with an amused smile and shook his head.

 

“What?” snapped the boy as Babet chuckled and handed back his fake ID.

 

“How old are you really?” the blond man asked gently, still smiling without threat.

 

“I’m eighteen!” Montparnasse insisted, a high flush colouring those beautiful cheekbones of his.

 

“No you are not,” confirmed Claquesous in a quiet, amused voice, “Or if you are then you are using a fake identity. You are either under eighteen or not called Montparnasse. Or both.”

 

Dark eyes narrowed and flashed with fury, and Babet mentally checked off point number two against this boy becoming one of his dancers; a short temper was not an agreeable trait in customer service.

 

“I want this job,” Montparnasse said in a dangerous voice, cold and precise enough to make Claquesous silence his laughter and go tense by Babet’s side, “You’ll give it to me or I’ll slit your sorry throats.” A flick knife flashed to life in the boy’s hand but Babet was too quick; the knife had been obvious from the start, its outline visible in the pocket of the too tight jeans, and Babet had been prepared for the possibility of violence.

 

After a brief skirmish, in which the boy acquitted himself surprisingly well, Babet held the knife and Claquesous held Montparnasse’s arms behind the boy’s back. Montparnasse was breathing hard through his aquiline nose, a contemptuous glare marring his delicate features despite his precarious situation. Babet was still smiling, unruffled by the action, as he dropped the weapon into his desk drawer.

 

“You’ve got a lotta balls kid,” Babet grinned, “I like that. I like _you_. You’re pretty, you need the money, and you brought a knife to a job interview so clearly you’ve got a drive to succeed. Tell us your real name and your real age and I’ll give you a job.”

 

The boy looked mutinous, and for a moment Babet thought he was going to get spat on, but clearly the kid had good self-preservation instincts as well, because he relaxed, schooled his features into as close to a neutral expression as he seemed able to manage and said, “Montparnasse. I’m sixteen. And I want my knife back.”

 

“See? Balls,” laughed Babet, “You can dance for me when you’re eighteen Montparnasse. Until then I’ll take you on as my PA, how does that sound?”

 

“Sounds shit,” said Montparnasse with a ghost of a sneer returning.

 

“You’ll get paid, you’ll learn how to run a club rather than be pimped out by one, and you’ll get your knife back once I’m sure you won’t stick it in my back. Think of it as an apprenticeship. Do we have a deal?”

 

The boy huffed petulantly, rolled his eyes, and finally admitted defeat, “Fine.”

 

“Great!” Babet clapped his hands like an excited child, “Can you start tonight? Usually we just piss around ‘til opening time so you’re welcome to hang out here until then.” He pulled out three beers from under his desk and flicked the caps off with a practiced twist of his lighter.

 

Claquesous’s grip on Montparnasse’s arms was just beginning to get painful. The vice like hands tightened painfully for a second, making the boy hiss, but then they were gone and the man was sitting casually on Babet’s desk, sipping his beer. Montparnasse rubbed his upper arms with a glare and carefully repositioned himself so that Babet was between him and Claquesous before taking a cautious sip.

 

Four hours later Montparnasse was passed out on the ratty sofa in Babet’s office, his expensive leather jacket balled up under his head and his glossy black hair awry. Claquesous looked down at him from his perch on the armrest, shrewd eyes still studying the boy without expression.

 

“He’s harmless,” smiled Babet, placing a calming hand on both of Claquesous’s shoulders and dropping a kiss to the crown of his head, “He’s a kid. I’m just glad he ended up here instead of whoring himself out in an alley somewhere for skag. He’ll turn out alright, you’ll see.”

 

“You trust too easily,” murmured Claquesous, never once glancing away from his vigil over Montparnasse.

 

“Trust? No. I don’t trust anyone as clever as he is. But he’s fucking gorgeous and he’s nasty as a tomcat, he might be worth keeping around. And you said yourself that fake ID was Thénardier’s work. It doesn’t hurt to have another connection to the old man, even if he is pushing bars right now. I’ve had run-ins with him before, the boy might make a good go-between.”

 

Finally Claquesous broke off his prolonged examination of the softly breathing body on the sofa and looked up at his lover with a cat-like smile, “You schemer.”

 

Babet grinned and kissed Claquesous briefly on the mouth, “One of the best. Now come on, we need to open up. I’ll send Gueulemer to keep an eye on him, I doubt even this kid would try to pick a fight with him.”


	6. Eponine

“What the fuck, ‘Parnasse?”

 

Montparnasse was not easily snuck up on, but he jumped so violently when Éponine stepped scowling out of the shadows that he dropped his cigarette.

 

“ _What the fuck_ yourself, ‘Ponine,” he snarled, “That was my last smoke!”

 

Her crossed arms and pointed look indicated just how much she cared as she continued angrily, “What are you doing here?”

 

“What are _you_ doing here?” he shot back pettily, smarting at being so easily trailed to his new and mysterious hideout.

 

“Looking for a pretty face to sink my fist into,” she snapped, and he knew from experience that the threat wasn’t an idle one, “Is this where you’ve been spending all your nights? Christ ‘Parnasse it’s a strip club. You’re _sixteen_. If you needed money that bad you should have said.”

 

He bridled at the accusation in her voice, “I don’t need money from you. Or your dad. I can look after myself just fine. You’re just jealous because I’ve got a job and a new gang and I don’t need you any more.”

 

Éponine’s thick eyebrows rose and Montparnasse knew his protest had come out sounding more childish than Gavroche’s frequent tantrums about not being allowed to stay awake until midnight.

 

“I’m not a stripper,” he huffed, “I run this place.”

 

Éponine laughed. It was a harsh bark of a sound, disbelieving and oh so familiar. “You?” she sniggered, “ _You_ run a strip club? You moved out of my parent’s spare room three weeks ago.  ‘Parnasse, of all the lies you’ve ever told me that is the least convincing.”

 

“I am not a fucking liar,” Montparnasse fumed, “You’re just- ”

 

“He’s not you know,” came a voice and Éponine spun to see a smiling blond man with a cigarette between his lips and another behind his ear. The man was older than both of them and his casual manner and easy grin put Éponine on her guard; in this part of town no one looked that relaxed unless they were packing something.

 

“Do you mind?” she said coldly, “This is a private conversation between old friends.”

 

“Then call me a new friend,” smiled the man, extending a hand to her, “Babet. Montparnasse’s PA at the club. Thought you’d like to know that Gueulemer called in boss, he won’t be on the door tonight.”

 

Éponine’s shrewd glare shot back to Montparnasse, whose mouth hung open for one dumbstruck second, then curved into his trademark smirk.

 

“Thanks Babet. Go sort out those accounts for me, would you?”

 

“You got it boss,” grinned the older man.

 

Éponine looked between the two of them then said slowly and quietly, with deadly precision, “You are a pair of lying cunts.”

 

Montparnasse looked furious but Babet laughed throatily, warm good humour flooding his voice as he chuckled, “I like you girly, you’ve got sass. You need a job?”

 

Éponine eyed Babet coldly, “I am not your girly. And I’m _sixteen_ you fucking sleazebag. Montparnasse, you seriously work for this guy?”

 

“ _He_ works for- ” began Montparnasse but Babet cut him off with a laugh.

 

“Drop it kid, we were never gonna fool her,” the man chuckled, “Which means I like her even more. What’s your name young lady?”

 

“Éponine,” her nostrils flared, “ _Thénardier_.”

 

Babet nodded as if unsurprised, “I’ve worked with your dad a couple of times.”

 

“What a shock,” she rolled her eyes.

 

Babet was unoffended, his easy grin remaining in place as Éponine stared him down and Montparnasse sulked. He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out besides the remains of Montparnasse’s before nodding cordially to both teens and saying, “Kid, we open in an hour, I want you in my office to go over the rosters. Éponine, it was a pleasure. You’re welcome here whenever you feel like dropping by.”

 

Once he was gone Éponine rounded on Montparnasse again, “Is he for real? He thinks a strip club is somewhere a high school girl wants to go and casually hang out!”

 

The boy shrugged, “Babet’s a people person. If he says you’re welcome he means it, he probably meant in case things get rough at home – he knows your dad. And he’s not a sleazebag.”

 

“He _runs a strip club_.”

 

“He didn’t lay a finger on me when I offered it.”

 

Éponine’s angry expression softened into shock, “You… what?”

 

Montparnasse sighed, glanced around to make sure they were really alone this time, and explained in a low voice, “I needed the money ok ‘Ponine, _fuck_. I asked him to give me a job here, him and his boyfriend – yes _boyfriend_ , or… non-binary partner or some shit, I don’t even know, whatever – they called me out on my age, I pulled a knife on them both and… he laughed. And he offered me a job as his PA. And he pays me and lets me stay in their spare room for free and _he’s never fucking touched me_ so don’t call him a sleazebag.”

 

Éponine looked dumbfounded. There was a few second’s pause between them then she said quietly and without looking at Montparnasse, “As long as you’re safe.”

 

He nodded, not looking at her either, and she walked away with no more words exchanged between them.

 

* * *

 

“ID?” grunted the hulk of a doorman.

 

Éponine pulled the hoodie off her face, revealing the beginnings of a fresh bruise around her eye and a split lip.

 

“I need to see Montparnasse.”

 

* * *

 

Éponine sat rigid on the unfamiliar sofa, still wrapped in her overlarge hoodie and holding it to herself like armour. Gavroche and Azelma were similarly wrapped up beside her, a blanket around both of their thin shoulders.

 

There was near silence in the tiny living room despite the fact that it was packed with the three Thénardiers, Montparnasse, and Claquesous. Gueulemer had dropped them off then driven back to the club to oversee the wind down of the evening. Babet emerged from the kitchen and placed mugs of hot chocolate into the two younger children’s hands with a comforting smile.

 

“Montparnasse will sleep on the sofa tonight,” asserted Claquesous, breaking the heavy atmosphere, “You’ll all stay in his room.”

 

Éponine nodded once in silent acknowledgement and thanks, while Montparnasse moved not a muscle, keeping his gaze fixed on the battered girl.

 

“If you want to talk- “ began Babet but Éponine cut him off.

 

“Bedtime guys, come on.”

 

Azelma was too tired to object and Gavroche hadn’t said a word since Éponine had hustled them all out of the house, only looking around himself with clever, shrewd eyes just like his sister’s and taking every moment in.

 

As soon as the interlopers were out of the room Montparnasse said in a low whisper, “Don’t.”

 

When Éponine returned a few minutes later looking older by years than she had a few moments ago no one said a thing. She sat back down on the sofa and this time seemed to collapse into herself, the steel of her spine melting until she was slumped over with her face in her hands and her elbows on her bony knees. Still no one said anything, though Babet chewed his lower lip and shot a look of concern at Montparnasse, who shook his head slowly.

 

At last Éponine volunteered, “Dad’s in jail.” Her voice was quiet but firm, no shake or trace of a sob. “Ma was drunk. She drinks when he’s not there. ‘Zelma and Gav are fine, they were in bed when she started, but they know how she gets.”

 

“And the boys?” asked Montparnasse quietly.

 

“Still in care, thank fuck,” answered Éponine with a bitter laugh, “Small mercies.”

 

Claquesous caught Babet’s look and shook his head sadly; missing children he could find, but there was nothing he could do about kids legally taken into care.

 

“Do you want to go to sleep?” Montparnasse asked, and Babet and Claquesous chose to take no notice of the gentility of his tone, the way he laid a comforting hand on her back, the way that their deadly teenage protégé suddenly seemed a child himself.

 

She lifted her head and her eyes were dry as she said firmly, “No. Not even a little bit. You guys go, I’ll just stay up, it’s fine.”

 

Babet laughed, the sudden sound jarring and quickly cut off as he said, “Sorry – it’s just, we all work the night shift, none of us is used to going to sleep until, like, seven in the morning.”

 

“Right, of course,” Éponine shook her head, “Yeah. If you guys wanna get back to work you should. I promise we won’t be any trouble if you leave us here.”

 

“Gueulemer’s got it covered,” smiled Babet, “But if you’d rather we gave you some space…”

 

“No, please,” Éponine pulled her hoodie tighter around herself, clenching her jaw against the sudden desperation in her voice before speaking again in more measured tones, “Stay. It’s your home. Just… Let’s put on a movie or something.”

 

So Claquesous turned on the television and they watched infomercials because Babet had sold the DVD player a few weeks before and the damn aerial didn’t pick up any other channels. The tension eased after a few minutes of background noise; Babet made tea, Montparnasse chopped out a few lines and Éponine smiled wanly at the cheesy misuse of everyday objects happening on the TV. By the time the sun rose a few hours later the miniscule room was at ease, Claquesous and Babet casually entwined with one another on the floor while Montparnasse dozed quietly on Éponine’s shoulder, her hand absently caressing his hair.

 

“Thank you,” she whispered, the words sounding as if they cost her more effort than the rest of the night combined.

 

Babet looked over at her and smiled sincerely, “Anytime kid.”


	7. Brujon Returns

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” fumed Montparnasse, shoving his phone back in his pocket, “He can’t get any. That’s it, that’s every damn supplier I know fucking gone. Even Thénardier is out of the game until next month, _fuck!_ ”

 

“My kid brother could probably help us out,” Babet said thoughtfully.

 

Montparnasse scoffed, “Your kid brother? I didn’t realise we were running a crèche.”

 

“Gavroche,” grunted Gueulemer from behind a newspaper.

 

“He’s right. You know I don’t mind having the kid around sometimes but he _is_ a kid,” laughed Babet, “And you can talk pretty boy, have you even started shaving yet? Brujon has a good eight years on you and he’s got contacts. He can get anything you need.”

 

Montparnasse’s glossy lips curled into a pout at Babet’s good-natured teasing, but he was sensible enough a businessman to listen to Babet’s proposal. “Fine, ask him. If he can get the goods quickly he’s in. If not he’s out, we don’t need any hangers-on in this, brother or not.”

 

“You got it chief,” smiled Babet wryly, extracting his phone from his pocket and dialling a number apparently from memory before walking into the next room for a whispered conversation. When he came back Babet was grinning crookedly, shaking his head in mirth; “The kid’s got more contacts than you’ve got designer clothes ‘Parnasse. He’ll be here in two hours with the gear.”

 

* * *

 

When Babet answered the door later that evening in swaggered a scruffy young man covered with tattoos and scars carrying two plastic shopping bags and grinning a grin almost identical to Babet’s, but for the missing canine tooth.

 

He strutted into the living room with his brother in his wake and dumped the bags on the table.

 

“Alright boys?” he greeted the assembled gang, “Hey, Phantom of the Opera, you’re still sticking with the freaky mask thing I see? Excellent. Gueulemer, looking good man, it’s been a while. And who’s this?”

 

Montparnasse raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow and introduced himself without standing or extending a hand to shake, “Montparnasse. I take it you’re Brujon?”

 

“The one and only,” the newcomer grinned gap toothily before turning to his brother in mock indignation, “Fucking hell Babet, what is he, fourteen? You can go to jail for that you know!”

 

Montparnasse clenched his jaw and replied coolly, “I’m seventeen.”

 

“Last week,” added Gueulemer slyly.

 

“Well happy birthday sweetheart,” sniggered Brujon, before dumping the contents of one bag onto the table, “Uncle Brujon’s brought a special present for you.”

 

Montparnasse shot of look of severe distaste at Babet who shrugged exaggeratedly, as if to say _What you gonna do?_

 

Meanwhile on the table Brujon was laying out rows of little baggies filled with white powder. “So it’s already bagged, and it’s not the best shit in the world, but there’s a kilo there so you’re good,” He explained as he worked, arranging the baggies with fastidious care and after a moment’s silent calculations he pulled another two from the back pocket of his ratty jeans to make up the full sum.

 

“Ace,” smiled Babet, clapping his brother on the shoulder, “You came through kid, thanks.”

 

“No worries,” Brujon playfully shoved Babet’s affectionate hand off his shoulder, “But you gotta hold onto some things for me, yeah?”

 

“Sure,” replied Babet, ignoring the pointed look from Montparnasse and the raised eyebrow from Claquesous.

 

Brujon tugged a handgun out of the back of his jeans, laying it on the table. There was a joint sigh of relief from Montparnasse and Claquesous that that was all it was; it would hardly be the only firearm in the house. But then Brujon reached into his sock and extracted a flick knife, then another gun from a shoulder holster, then a set of suspiciously rusty looking knuckle dusters from a pocket. Finally he pulled out his wallet and carefully removed two tiny memory cards, both in baggies of their own, and looked each of them in the eye as he said, “Do not _under any circumstances_ look at these. If the filth pay you a visit, you destroy them – burn them, flush them, whatever. Understand?”

 

“You got it,” assured Babet as Claquesous tried to hide his curiosity and Montparnasse didn’t even bother to conceal his irritation at being given orders by a virtual stranger.

 

“How you doing anyway bruv?” Brujon asked his brother, “Still running them two clubs?”

 

“Three now,” grinned Babet proudly.

 

“Well good for you. But I gotta run,” declared Brujon, “Literally in fact, unless any of you boys have a car I could borrow..?”

 

Babet glanced at Montparnasse inquiringly. Montparnasse sighed heavily, “In the street behind the house, two doors down, a silver Mercedes E-Class. Keys are in the tin by the door, blue key ring.”

 

Brujon gave an approving grin, “So it’s hot? Well would you look at that, babyface has got game!”

 

“Montparnasse is good with cars,” said Babet, circumventing an outburst from the babyface in question.

 

“Do you steal to order?” asked Brujon, suddenly serious.

 

“I could,” agreed Montparnasse slowly, “For the right price.”

 

Brujon chuckled, “I just might take you up on that. Keep him around bruv, he’s useful. And he’s a piece of work, I can tell. Beautiful and nasty, just your style.” At which Claquesous allowed himself a small smile.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Babet said with a good-natured eye roll, “Thanks for the gear. Now scram, brat.”

 

“I’ll be back in a week for that stuff,” said Brujon, then with the clink of car keys and the slam of a door he was gone.

 

“Charming fellow, your brother,” smiled Claquesous wryly, “I do hope he won’t be a stranger.”


	8. Claquesous x Montparnasse

“You fancy him don’t you?”

 

Claquesous had been brooding in his bedroom, idly twirling a pen in his fingers, until he was interrupted by his nosy lover. A scowl crossed the forger’s face and he opened his mouth to lie but the truth came tumbling out instead, as it so often did around Babet.

 

“Is it so obvious?”

 

“Yes,” grinned the blond, “But I can’t blame you – he’s a hot piece of ass. I fancy him myself.”

 

“It doesn’t bother you?”

 

“Of course not. You know I don’t care who you sleep with.”

 

“Not that,” Claquesous grimaced, “The boy is _seventeen_.”

 

“So he’s legal,” nodded Babet sagely.

 

Claquesous removed his mask in agitation and flung it down on the bed before rubbing his face roughly with both hands as if to banish any thought of his teenaged object of lust, “Christ Babet, _seventeen_. He’s a child!”

 

“If you’ve got that big a problem with it then don’t fuck him,” shrugged Babet, “Or wait until he’s older, I don’t think he’s going anywhere. But if you got over your self induced guilt trip and did the deed you’d hardly be his first, that boy knows exactly what he’s doing with those tight jeans and his goddamn lip gloss.”

 

Claquesous groaned, “I want to eat him alive.”

 

“I know you do,” grinned Babet, “And for what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’s waiting for you to do it.”

 

“Who’s waiting for what?” drawled a voice from the doorway. Claquesous’s head jerked up in surprise but Babet laughed and flung the discarded mask at the beautiful intruder.

 

“I’m waiting for a little git like you to learn how to knock! You’d better have an update for me on that shipment, kid.”

 

Montparnasse had coolly dodged the projectile and now looked at Babet with something like excitement in his usually cold eyes. “Thenardier says the gear will be here tonight, two kilos of pure, uncut coke. Plus he’s throwing in a few handfuls of pills to make up for the delay.”

 

“Pills?” asked Babet. He was a proud pharmacology graduate and very particular about his drugs.

 

Montparnasse shrugged, “He says MDMA. I say probably speed mixed with ketamine if it’s anything like the last batch he tried to fob off on me. We’ll see soon enough.”

 

* * *

 

Gueulemer lugged two brown paper wrapped parcels into the kitchen and dropped them on the side, stepping back to allow Montparnasse the honours with his ever-present flick knife. The paper was sliced through in a second and the boy examined a small mound of tiny white crystals on the tip of the blade.

 

“Seems legit.”

 

“Great. Let’s bag it up and ship it out.”

 

Montparnasse looked up with a shrewd expression. “You aren’t going to wash it?”

 

“What?” asked Claquesous, sounding mystified.

 

“I don’t usually bother,” shrugged Babet.

 

Montparnasse wrinkled his nose in distaste. “No wonder you hardly turn a profit. Wash it, trust me. Wash it and you’ll see your client base double before you’ve even shifted half of the gear.”

 

Babet raised an amused eyebrow, “A connoisseur? Tell me, oh great coke king, how will washing it improve our margins enough to justify me spending a few hours in the kitchen elbow deep in acetone, plus waiting another day or two for it to evaporate properly before we can start shifting it?”

 

The trademark smirk closed over Montparnasse’s features and it was clear he wasn’t going to back down on this. “Simple. Washing it removes the impurities. A cleaner product is a better product. A better product means happy customers. Have you ever had really, truly clean coke before, Babet? I have. You can do it for three days straight without tweaking out and you crave a lot less while enjoying the high more; there are no ampy or paranoid side effects to clean coke. You start selling the good shit and word will get around, I promise you that.”

 

Babet looked impressed, and after a brief confirming glance at Claquesous he said jovially, “Ok kid, you’re on. I’ll wash it. But if I don’t see a marked increase in profit I’ll kick your ass, you got it?”

 

Montparnasse shrugged assent with his usual indifference to physical threats.

 

“What about the pills?” queried Claquesous, “Can you tell what’s in them?”

 

“Easy enough to find out,” grinned Babet, “Go grab a testing kit, they’re in the bottom cupboard in the kitchen, under the sink.”

 

Montparnasse grinned wickedly, rolling a pastel-coloured pill between his fingers, “Or we could just...” and before any of them could move to stop him he’d swallowed down the little pink ball of unknown chemicals.

 

“What the fuck ‘Parnasse?” demanded Babet hotly, “You don’t even know what’s in that – shit. It could be anything. You dumb fuck, seriously- ”

 

“Relax,” drawled Montparnasse, “Thenardier might give me c-grade goods but he wouldn’t give me poison. The old man loves me, calls me his fucking son-in-law, no way he’d give me anything lethal. Now who wants to get fucked up and have a little fun?”

 

Brujon bared his teeth in a feral grin and grabbed two pills off the table – one pink, one baby blue – and swallowed them both dry just to show he could go one better than Montparnasse. Gueulemer shrugged and took one, and at Babet’s sigh of exasperated surrender Claquesous took one as well. Only Babet abstained, stubbornly insisting that at least one of them ought to remain sober enough to start washing the coke. He sullenly stripped off and set to work in the kitchen while the others cracked open a few beers in the living room and waited for the drugs to take effect.

 

Thirty minutes later, during a lull in conversation, Montparnasse asked, “Stomach cramps anyone?” They all nodded or murmured assent to experiencing the first indicator of the drug’s onset and the boy’s lips curved into a graceful smirk, “Here we go.”

 

Three hours later Babet was in a much better mood, all the coke acetone washed and set to dry under a heat lamp. He cracked open a beer and went into the living room to make sure his friends were all still breathing.

 

Gueulemer and Brujon were playing a very aggressive game of cards, though there seemed to be some contention over whether they were playing snap or rummy. Montparnasse seemed to be fascinated with running his long fingers over the luxurious Egyptian cotton of his shirt. Claquesous sat beside him on the sofa, a dazed smile on his face as he flicked through his ipod, bouncing a little to the beat of each song. Babet shook his head at the lot of them in exasperated fondness before forcing his way onto the couch beside Claquesous, pressing his lover in between himself and Montparnasse.

 

Babet felt good. He was still clad in only his boxers and he’d had a few cheeky snorts of coke before he’d started the wash; his skin felt like it was humming. The warmth of Claquesous next to him felt good, his hair smelled good, the tinny beat from his headphones sounded good... Without realising it, Babet’s hand found its way up the nape of Claquesous’s neck and buried itself in his long hair, tugging gently at the shorter strands and making the other man close his eyes and hum pleasurably, head rolling back into Babet’s ministrations.

 

The low noise caught Montparnasse’s attention and he stopped stroking the fabric of his shirt to look over at his friends, curiosity writ large on his handsome, wide eyed face.

 

Babet smirked at him around Claquesous, whose closed eyes left him oblivious to the exchange. Babet did something with his hand and Claquesous moaned, a little smile softening his features. Montparnasse licked his lips and reached for his beer on the table before taking a swig. When he looked back Babet was still smirking at him knowingly and Claquesous was somehow shirtless, groaning as Babet toyed with a ring through his nipple that Montparnasse had never noticed before. Babet raised his eyebrows at Montparnasse and gave a little questioning jerk of his head towards Claquesous. Montparnasse’s mouth was suddenly dry again and he knocked back the rest of his beer before nodding at Babet.

 

The blond grinned – his usual good-natured grin but with an edge of something darker – and withdrew his hands from Claquesous. The dark skinned man’s eyes blinked open slowly, his pupils large as he looked up at his lover in confusion. Babet took his face in his hands, kissed him tenderly, then turned his chin so that Claquesous was looking at Montparnasse, all wide eyes and red lips and flushed cheeks. Claquesous’s head whipped back to face his lover and he croaked, “Really?”

 

Smiling gently, Babet took Claquesous’s earphones out and affirmed, “Really.”

 

Claquesous turned back to Montparnasse, his mouth hanging a little open and asked again, “Yeah?”

 

“If you want,” Montparnasse tried to affect his usual nonchalance but he ended up sounding breathy and a touch desperate. The drugs made his movements twitchy and agitated, and his hands explored each other ceaselessly, drawing Claquesous’s eye to the long, delicate fingers.

 

“Oh, he wants,” nodded Babet with a smirk, “Have fun boys.” And with that he disappeared, slinking off down the hall to his bedroom and leaving Claquesous and Montparnasse alone on the sofa, jittery and staring at one another, pupils blown wide and not entirely sure how to proceed.

 

“I want you,” said Claquesous, for clarity’s sake.

 

Montparnasse nodded, a small smile working its way across his plush lips, “You liked it when he... When Babet, when he pulled your hair, huh?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Montparnasse moved closer and brushed a hand through Claquesous’s long hair, trailing his fingers to the nape of the other man’s neck before tugging lightly. “Like that?” he asked softly.

 

“Yeah,” Claquesous’s eyes slid closed again, “Yeah that’s good. Not too hard.”

 

Montparnasse continued tugging, experimenting with different twists, fascinated by the feel of the hair running between his tingling fingers, pulling hard, then soft, losing himself in Claquesous’s gentle moans. Without thought he leaned forward and pressed his open mouth to Claquesous’s throat, tasting salt and heat under his tongue, unable to stop himself from sucking hard at the soft skin there, instantly addicted to the low groan it drew from Claquesous.

 

Suddenly Montparnasse felt strong hands close around his waist, and he was dragged bodily into Claquesous’s lap with a growl from the other man. Montparnasse gladly threw one leg over Claquesous’s thigh so he was straddling the older man, still with his tongue and teeth pressed desperately to Claquesous’s throat, the thrum of amphetamines loud in his veins.

 

“You sure about this?” Claquesous breathed, his hands gripping the boy like claws, sunk deep into his flesh.

 

“Fuck yeah,” gasped Montparnasse, finally relinquishing his hold on the other man’s throat only to dip lower and tongue at the nipple ring, desperate to taste more of him, while Claquesous grabbed at Montparnasse’s shirt, unbuttoning it enough to bare the boy’s throat to his own ministrations.

 

"This doesn't mean anything," growled Claquesous as he yanked the boy up and sank his teeth into the bared juncture of Montparnasse's neck and shoulder, his strong, possessive hands anchoring the lithe body in his lap.

 

"Nothing," gasped Montparnasse in agreement, rolling his hips into Claquesous's as the older man shoved his hands roughly down the back of the boy's sinfully tight jeans, groping his arse.

 

"You're so young," began Claquesous, breaking off with a groan as Montparnasse rolled their hips insistently together again, " _Fuck_. This is probably just a phase. You're just experimenting. It's nothing." The chemicals sang in his blood, rushing through him and urging him on regardless.

 

"Mmm," purred Montparnasse, "Nothing. A phase. Fuck yes 'Sous, don't stop!"

 

Claquesous groaned and again dug his fingernails into the firm flesh of the boy's arse, certain that he must be leaving red marks on that marble-white skin and finding that the thought only spurred him on to press harder, determined to tear this beautiful creature in his lap apart. Montparnasse was rutting against him in earnest now, jagged, bitten off little moans escaping those perfect, pouting lips as if even under the influence he refused to lose control of himself, to drop the facade of total teenage indifference. This reticence only poured more fuel on the already raging fire of Claquesous's lust; he intended to shatter that facade before he was done, break down the ego that Montparnasse wore in the same way that 'Sous wore his masks, and make the boy give in, scream for him, lose control entirely.

 

He was flying, high on desire and compound chemicals, totally oblivious to the world around him, to whether the others had left the room or not; to time, to space, gravity, oxygen; the only thing he knew was Montparnasse’s raw heat against him and the animal lust searing through his veins.

 

"Come on," breathed Montparnasse darkly in his lover's ear, his voice shuddery and insistent.

 

"What do you want?" growled Claquesous, tipping his head back to allow the boy to nip lightly at his throat.

 

"I want you to fuck me," groaned Montparnasse against the elder man's pulse point before dragging his tongue along his clean shaven jaw line, "I want you to open me up and fuck me just like this, with me in your lap, riding you, your hands all over me."

 

Claquesous had thought he was as hard as could be, but apparently not, judging by the way his cock twitched and throbbed at Montparnasse's obscene words and clever tongue.

 

"You dirty boy," groaned Claquesous, "Fucking filthy. Christ. Take your pants off." Montparnasse smirked and Claquesous resisted the urge to smack the sarcastic little grin right off his face; he was pushing his luck already even fucking the boy in this state, let alone bringing his kinks to bed the first time.

 

_The Last Time_ , he reminded himself. _This isn't going to happen again_.

 

Montparnasse was standing, shimmying somewhat less than gracefully out of his skinny jeans, boots discarded on the floor already; they were suddenly quite alone. Claquesous merely undid the fly of his own trousers and pulled out his cock, stroking himself languidly as Montparnasse struggled out of his clothing. Finally the jeans came off but Claquesous was out of patience; "You get that shirt off right now or I will rip it off your back."

 

Claquesous gazed levelly at the boy for a moment, gauging his reaction to the order. Montparnasse paused, his expression inscrutable, but then he wordlessly pulled the button down over his head and let it drop to the floor. Claquesous had seen Montparnasse get changed many times before, and never once had he simply dropped a garment to the ground, even a torn or bloodstained one. The boy was meticulous about his appearance and borderline obsessive about clothing care; the inside-out shirt now lying crumpled up on the floor might as well have been a surrender flag.

 

Montparnasse crawled back into Claquesous's lap, draping his naked body across the elder man teasingly before wrapping his own slim hand around 'Sous's cock and beginning to stroke as he'd watched the other man do moments before.

 

"Mmm, that's good," encouraged Claquesous, letting his drug darkened eyes fall shut in pleasure then immediately forcing them back open to take in the beauty sprawled in his lap, jacking him off with expert strokes. He was grateful that the high and the stimulation were almost enough to eclipse any thoughts that this was clearly not Montparnasse's first time with another man, not an experiment, not _nothing_...

 

Growling, Claquesous shoved two fingers past those plush lips, pressing down on the boy's tongue and gagging him, feeling hot saliva slick him as Montparnasse hollowed his cheeks and sucked at the digits as best he could.

 

"That's it baby, show me how much you want my cock," demanded Claquesous, feeling himself carried away on the tide of wanting that those glinting eyes, those dangerous cheekbones, that _tongue_ , inspired in him.

 

Montparnasse redoubled his efforts, sucking fiercely, his dark eyes closed in ecstasy. When Claquesous yanked his fingers free with an obscene noise the boy _whined_ and flashed him such a look of petulant wanting that it was difficult not to shove back in and get off on simply having his hand fellated.

 

But Claquesous resisted. He trailed the wet fingers down Montparnasse’s spine until they brushed teasingly between his cheeks, forcing another strained little noise from the boy. Claquesous’s smile felt savage and twisted, and he sank his teeth into Montparnasse’s throat to hide it, pressing one finger sharply inside the boy at the same moment, making him gasp.

 

“Fuck,” swore Montparnasse, drawing out the vowel in a way that made Claquesous’s skin shiver, “More, _god_.”

 

Claquesous complied, roughly pushing another spit covered finger inside, Montparnasse so hot and tight around him and the saliva not quite enough to ease the way, every pull and thrust electric between them, the fierce euphoria of their high clouding all senses but touch. Montparnasse was whining, pushing onto his hand and murmuring all the while, breathy little noises punctuated with curses and exultations, the words swirling sweetly together so that Claquesous barely understood, barely understood anything beyond heat and need and heartbeat.

 

Suddenly Montparnasse lifted himself off Claquesous’s lap, leaving the older man bereft and confused by the razor sharp smirk that was at once charming and threatening. Then the boy sank to his knees between Claquesous’s legs and hot, wet, sense returned to the world and Claquesous’s head fell back in animal bliss as Montparnasse sucked him down with deft skill. His high was peaking, he could feel every atom of his body floating and humming, could feel Montparnasse and every piece of him as well, conjoined to his own; their pleasure shared, symbiotic; their bodies not merely entwined but spliced together, inextricably linked by the heat and the throb and the scream of flesh that overwrought them both.

 

And again, without warning, the sensation was gone and Claquesous was left cold and wet until Montparnasse climbed, panting, back into his lap while the chemicals they shared screamed that a lack of constant bodily contact between them could prove fatal. Then Montparnasse was grinding against him, his cock slipping between the boy’s cheeks like a lost soul nosing its way towards heaven.

 

“Condom,” gasped Claquesous as his entire body shuddered at the sly heat of Montparnasse. Some small part of his brain not flooded with serotonin and amphetamines was still wallowing in enough guilt to prompt the precaution.

 

Montparnasse gave an angry whine and Claquesous smacked his arse hard in automatic warning, quieting the boy but evidently not discouraging him. The sharp noise seemed to reinstate some sense of reality to the older man, who managed to remove his hands from his rutting paramour for long enough to clumsily pull his wallet from his trouser pocket and extract a condom, rolling it onto himself as quickly as he could manage with his hands feeling as though they were glowing and Montparnasse still writhing in his lap.

 

And at last – _at last!_ – they were fucking, Claquesous ready to die, ready to shatter, because fucking Montparnasse was better than anything else he had ever done and the pleasure was so overwhelming he almost wanted it to stop, but then stopping too seemed impossible; any sort of existence beyond the heat of his dick seemed irrelevant and petty and the product of a sick imagination. Montparnasse was moaning loudly, almost crying out, his noises unrestrained and bestial as they coupled inelegantly, both too far gone to keep any sort of rhythm as Montparnasse rocked down and Claquesous drove up, chasing their orgasm, their absolution, their nirvana.

 

The air was thick between them as Montparnasse came with a yowl, his entire body shuddering as if ready to fly apart; Claquesous held him and seconds later found his own release in the tremors of that young flesh. They remained together, melded into one, their stuttering heartbeats synchronised as their souls touched the edges of the universe then receded back to the mortal plane, dazed eyes rolling open to the disappointment of drab walls rather than shining constellations. Hands unclenched, breathing slowed, sweat dried, and they remained wrapped up in one another, the world revolving around them as they burned together.


	9. Chapter 9

“Rough day at the office?” Montparnasse drawled as Claquesous tumbled into the flat through the window with none of his usual grace.

 

The masked man – today wearing dark, reflective sunglasses and with a keffiyeh wrapped tightly around the lower part of his face – was bloodied and panting hard, though appeared uninjured.

 

“You ok?” asked Gueulemer from the other side of the room where Montparnasse had set him to counting out and bagging up piles of pills.

 

“You should see the other guys,” intoned Claquesous without humour as he unwound the blood stained scarf.

 

Babet was flying; he had mixed and pressed the pills earlier in the day and insisted on trying ‘just one or two’ as a form of quality control. He ran in from the kitchen at the sound of voices and danced giddily up to Claquesous, licking the still-wet blood off his face.

 

“That,” said Montparnasse in a tone of disbelieving disgust, “Is revolting. Seriously. Babet, go disinfect your tongue or something because that is the nastiest shit I have seen in a long time.”

 

Babet’s wide blown eyes glinted mischievously and he merely licked ‘Sous again, more lasciviously this time. Montparnasse gave an exaggerated shudder of revulsion and looked pointedly away from the scene.

 

“Don’t be such a prude ‘Parnasse,” teased Babet, as Claquesous wiped the mixture of saliva and blood off his cheek with the ruined scarf, “You’ve licked blood - and worse - off ‘Sous before and we all know it.”

 

Anyone expecting Montparnasse to blush at that moment would have been sorely disappointed – Montparnasse did not blush. Fact. Instead he shrugged in nonchalant admission but added, “I was aware of whose blood I was ingesting and in possession of a clean test belonging to that person. I hope you get Hepatitis B, you tit.”

 

Babet leapt at Montparnasse with his bloodied tongue stuck out exaggeratedly, attempting to lick the teen. Montparnasse deflected the initial attack but was caught off guard when Babet swung a leg into the back of his knees, bringing Montparnasse to the ground, but not before he’d grabbed onto the older man’s shirt and brought him down as well in a pile of flailing limbs.

 

“You cunt!” snarled Montparnasse as Babet’s tongue left a trail of spit and blood down his forearm. They rolled together on the floor for a moment, grunting as each tried to gain the upper hand in the wrestling match, Babet laughing manically and Montparnasse growling. Eventually Montparnasse managed to drive an elbow into Babet’s solar plexus, winding the older man, and he scrambled to his feet with his usually perfect hair awry and a scowl on his face. Babet wheezed with choked off laughter as Montparnasse aimed a kick at his ribs but was stopped by Claquesous’s hand on his shoulder.

 

“Now boys,” warned Claquesous, “When you’ve quite finished, I have some news.”

 

Montparnasse straightened his clothes and brushed a hand fussily through his hair, removing himself to the other side of the room and thereby putting Gueulemer between him and Babet, who still lay on the floor, giggling.

 

“What?” asked Gueulemer, putting aside the drugs he was handling and looking pointedly at Claquesous; Gueulemer had a keen nose for trouble and he’d smelled it the moment Claquesous – usually so subtle and graceful – had tumbled unceremoniously into the flat.

 

“I had a bit of trouble on my way home,” Claquesous explained, “Nothing I wasn’t able to handle on my own but still, it worries me. I’ve never been confronted in broad daylight before, not in my own territory.”

 

“Who was it?” asked Montparnasse darkly, the scowl on his face suddenly all business; even Babet sat up, a serious look clouding his usually open countenance.

 

“They wore masks,” Claquesous smiled, not missing the irony, “But it was Boulatrelle’s boys, I know their voices well enough. Only two of them, and obviously under orders not to significantly injure me but worrying all the same, I am sure you’ll agree.”

 

“Those little bastards,” growled Montparnasse, “They fucking owe us money! Gueulemer, take care of them.”

 

Gueulemer acquiesced with a silent nod and a flex of his biceps.

 

“They’ll pay, one way or another,” stated Montparnasse coldly.

 

* * *

 

“We should get organised.”

 

“What?”

 

Babet looked down to where Montparnasse lay with his head pillowed on the older man’s tattooed stomach. His hair was still awry but the flush in his cheeks and down his lean, hairless chest was waning; a pity. Babet’s hand was stroking idly through Claquesous’s long hair while the dark skinned man’s bare legs lay entangled with Montparnasse’s. The three of them lay comfortably naked together in the bed, not cuddling exactly but sharing the intimacy of afterglow all the same.

 

“Get organised,” reiterated Montparnasse, rolling over onto his elbow so he could look at both of his lovers properly, “You know, like... Like a real gang.”

 

“A gang?” echoed Claquesous, amused indulgence in his tone as Babet laughed.

 

“Kid, this ain’t West Side Story.”

 

“Think about it,” insisted Montparnasse, by now used to Babet’s good natured mockery and Claquesous’s patronising smiles, “Thenardier is old, and he spends half his time in the joint anyway, he’s out of the game. We could run this town.”

 

“We already run this town,” pointed our Babet with a wry smile.

 

“So we let people know about it!” exclaimed Montparnasse, “I’m fucking sick of debts being paid late, people backing out of deals. I’m not gonna be looked down on anymore, it’s bullshit.”

 

“’Parnasse,” gentled Claquesous, “Do you recall the last man who made a disparaging comment about you? I seem to remember he left in an ambulance.”

 

“And the fucker won’t ever look down on me again,” sniffed Montparnasse haughtily, “That’s what I mean. We get organised, we get tough. Babet, how much have we lost from unpaid debts?”

 

Babet had been going over the books just the day before; since the three of them had started living together it just made sense to pool their money and Babet, who had a good head for numbers, kept the accounts. After a moment’s silent calculation he admitted, “About four grand in the last six months.”

 

Claquesous whistled lowly. He tried not to concern himself too much with money, satisfied that the current roof over his head was better than the squat he’d been living in previously, but that was a big loss by anyone’s standards.

 

Montparnasse smirked triumphantly. “That’s because you have cultivated a reputation as a _nice guy_. Mistake. We get tough, we don’t take any more excuses, we don’t give any more warnings, we don’t let anything slide. Anyone who can’t pay gets a visit from Gueulemer and we recoup any losses by selling their fucking organs. Give it a month, no one will tell us they can’t pay after that.”

 

Claquesous looked intrigued, impressed; no doubt he had not thought his sweet teenage lover capable of such ruthlessness. Babet looked a shade more troubled by the notion of such violence, but he was a businessman at heart and he recognised the fiscal sense in Montparnasse’s brutal suggestion.

 

“Ok kid, say we join your gang,” posited Babet slowly, as Claquesous’s hand caressed up and down Montparnasse’s bare thigh, “And we get nicked. Gang affiliations lengthen jail terms, fact. And while someone like Brujon ain’t gonna care, I know Gueulemer wouldn’t go to prison for you.”

 

“And I wouldn’t go to prison for you,” snapped Montparnasse and Claquesous pinched him sharply in rebuke. Montparnasse glared and slapped Claquesous’s hand away from his leg, earning himself a warning growl from the other man. “Look, none of us is going to prison!  Have any of us ever been caught before? ‘Sous, you’ve never even been arrested, never mind imprisoned. As far as the authorities are concerned you don’t exist. And Babet, every cop in town knows you’re above board and they aren’t going to haul you in on anything so long as you keep them happy with free drinks and dances. We’re as good as untouchable.”

 

Babet looked sceptical at this argument but he nodded nonetheless, “Fine. We’ll give it a try. But no goddamn organ harvesting! You fucking lunatic. Just send Gueulemer around with a bat first, that’d scare anyone into paying.”

 

Montparnasse smirked in satisfaction and turned to Claquesous for his opinion.

 

“We didn’t know what we were letting ourselves in for the day we took you on, you little savage,” said Claquesous with a hint of danger in his smile.

 

“What are you going to call this gang of yours, kiddo?” asked Babet with a laconic smile, “The Jets and the Sharks are taken I hear. Maybe we could be the Hovercrafts, or the Goldfish..?”

 

“Patron Minette,” said Montparnasse immediately, as if he’d been thinking about it for days (which, Claquesous reflected, he probably had).

 

Babet looked nonplussed, “Is that French?”

 

Montparnasse raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, “Yes. It adds a touch of fucking class, you ill educated moron.”

 

“Uncalled for!” hollered Babet, clutching his chest with a look of mock wounding, “I have a tertiary education! I am a man of letters! _You_ are a dirty little high school drop out, who- ”

 

“Is fluent in two languages,” smirked Montparnasse, smug superiority radiating from him.

 

“What does it mean?” interrupted Claquesous, who looked unperturbed by the revelation that his youngest lover was not only bisexual but bilingual as well.

 

“Patron Minette? Kind of like... the dark before the dawn.”

 

Babet gave a cough that sounded a lot like “Pretentious,” but Claquesous cuffed him around the head.

 

“We’re in,” affirmed the dark skinned man with a predatory leer, “Now come here and seal it with a kiss.”

 

Montparnasse rolled his eyes but complied, crawling into Claquesous’s lap, his sweet kisses quickly turning dirty until Babet groaned, “Come on you two, not everyone has the recovery time of a teenager!”

 

Montparnasse and Claquesous simultaneously flipped their middle fingers at him without breaking their filthy kiss and Babet chuckled before getting up and pulling his boxers back on.

 

“Fine, I’ll leave you kids to play. The ghost and the gang leader... When you two are rolling in ill-gotten gains just remember the guy who used to keep the accounts and make the tea and give the best blowjobs. Don’t forget your friends!”

 

With a laugh Babet dodged the bottle of lube flung at him and left the room to make himself a cup of tea and go over the ledgers again; Montparnasse was right, something seriously needed to be done about their dwindling joint income. They needed to get organised.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to Lynchy8 who is a fabulous beta and has been very patient with me on my recent hiatus.
> 
> I'm on tumblr! http://anglophiliac-x.tumblr.com


End file.
